


Good luck, Hale

by igotdamn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, College Student Stiles Stilinski, F/M, Flirting, Like unashamed flirting, M/M, More tags later, Professor Derek Hale, no Kate Argent, ten year age difference
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-04-17 22:54:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4684358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igotdamn/pseuds/igotdamn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thirty-two year old art historian Derek Hale gets the career opportunity of a life-time when an established colleague at his university is unexpectedly unavailable to give his course at Mr. Deaton's exclusive annual winter holiday Institute for the very rich in Switzerland. Most students are spoiled brats, so their interest goes less to the courses than to Alpine fun, drinking, pranks, and dares. Stiles Stilinksi makes a bet involving the new History of Literature professor, the grumpy and society-inept Derek, who secretly falls in love with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> So this is kind of based on the book "Veel geluk, professor!" by Aster Berkhof, who is a Belgian author. If you read it, that's great! It's an awesome book. If you haven't, no problemo! It's most likely only going to enhance the reading experience.
> 
> I'm planning this to be sixteen chapters, might be one more or less. The plan is to update once every week, more when my schedule allows it.  
> Comments are awesome; give me some motivation!
> 
> Also, there's gonna be more tags in the future, and if you think something should be tagged, and it hasn't been tagged yet, please let me know! I'll add it right away.
> 
> So that's about it for what I have to say. I hope you enjoy the story, and let me know what you think!
> 
>  
> 
> Oh yeah no wait. I'm not American, so if the whole college thing doesn't add up to how college works in America, I'm sorry. This is very much based on how it works over here (and I'm obviously not American).

 

When he, all the way down in the valley, arrived at the station, he stood perfectly still for a couple of minutes. Suitcase in hand, right in front of the exit, admiring the view. Breathtaking. Absolutely breathtaking.  
 

The little town covered in snow looked like it was taken straight out of a fairy tale book. Mountains circling the valley as if serving as a sturdy winter coat. The pine trees adorning the slopes were just like big Christmas trees, hung with silver and diamonds.  
 

Breathtaking even feels like an understatement, Derek thought while taking a deep breath of thin ice cold air. He nearly closed his eyes and resolutely decided that he’d just stay at that exact spot for the next couple of months. But that’s not why he was there.  
 

Before his thoughts could take him away again, someone yelled at him. “If you want to take the bus, you’ll have to hurry!”  
 

Derek turned around. Several travellers handing over their luggage before hopping onto the bus. “That’s okay, I’m going by foot,” he said with a smile. More than a little content at the idea of hiking up to the Institute, and more than a little cocky.  
 

“You have more courage than I do,” said the bus driver as he closed the door behind him, started the engine, and left.  
 

Derek simply kept his smile in place while watching the bus drive away. He casted his gaze upwards where he could see the castle, all the way at the top of the mountain, where he was expected. Probably only a kilometre or four, he figured. And if he followed the road the bus was taking, he couldn’t go wrong.  
 

So he left. Feeling motivated and completely enamoured by his surroundings. He didn’t even realise that at one time, he sank into a pit of snow all the way to his stomach; he simply pulled himself out without as much as a grunt. Too busy to care as he was entirely captivated by the wonderful woods. The beauty was overwhelming and nearly knocked him right back off his feet.  
 

He thought back to New York. Big city, big lights, very little nature. As someone who grew up in a little town like Beacon Hills, even more so in a house in the Preserve, New York never really did it for him. But it’s where he had to go to try and make it big time. History professors need the prestige, the connections to do so, and in all fairness, he wouldn’t find that back in Beacon Hills.  
 

So he thought back to New York, and Dr. West, and he smiled. For the first time in the thirty-two years he’s been alive, Derek felt no distaste or disapproval towards the old grump, who’s been rector for over thirty (yes he’s _that_ old) years at NYU. It’s not the old man’s fault he has a bad stomach and has to deal with acid reflux every two, three hours. It’s even less his fault that sometimes he forgets to take his meds, so if one of the younger professors just so happens to pass by to ask him a question they get scolded until they nearly cry. Not his fault at all.  
 

No, no. Old Dr. West was alright. Even though he was stubbornly convinced that other than Plato all philosophers were absolute idiots, and even though no one should ever attempt to refute that, Dr. West was _alright_. And at that moment, Derek decided he’d gift him a bottle of glorious schnapps for his birthday. The man had earned it after all, after so many years of true and hard work.  
 

Those generous thoughts had such a big benevolent influence on him that he didn’t even realise he'd slipped on snow again, and ended up on his ass. Freezing his butt off didn’t matter right now. Why would it? When his life’s as wonderful as it was? He merely shook his head with a smile, patted the snow off his clothes, and pulled his suitcase close so he could keep walking.  
 

If he had honestly examined his thoughts at that moment, he would have realised his sudden fondness for Dr. West had nothing to do with Dr. West at all, but with professor Mann instead. This professor, originally appointed by Dr. West to teach this winter course in ‘History of Literature’ at the International Institute of Sir Deaton, had fallen unexpectedly ill the previous day. After a first examination, Mann was rushed to the hospital, and was told to stay there for at least three months for treatment and observation purposes. An hour later Derek had received a note by Dr. West to come see him, and ten minutes later he was hurrying through the busy city to take care of some last-minute arrangements and to buy a new suit before his flight to Vienna the next morning.  
 

Needless to say, he hadn’t been able to close his eyes for even a second, too excited, and too nervous.  
 

And now here he was, wishing professor Mann all the best, but deep down he thanked the Gods because Mann had fallen ill at such a convenient time, and rector West hadn’t had the chance to find an older, more experienced replacement.  
 

Because the Institute of Sir Deaton, which was housed in an old castle, was, in one word; famous. It attracted young aristocrats from all over the world, finding their way to Sankt Moritz for winter sports, and used their mornings to fit in some studying. The Institute was so richly subsidised that working at the Institute meant earning as much in two months as you would at a university in an entire year. That was the exact reason that the teaching positions were so extremely popular. It practically meant a highly-payed two-month holiday. But it also meant that the Institute only hired the most well-known and experienced professors they could find.  
 

So Derek had absolutely no reason whatsoever to be grateful towards Dr. West, because if the old prick would have been able to find someone else so short-noticed, he would have for sure. He would have even called to Paris or London to find some kind of old, dusty professor, who could’ve made the Institute that tad more renowned by name alone.  
 

But Derek didn’t care about that. He was simply glad, and proud, and happy. All he did was enjoy the nature surrounding him. And if his arm started to feel stiff from carrying his luggage, he merely mindlessly switched arms.  
 

The further he got, though, the thicker the snow coated the road, and the less easy it got to wade through it. Derek kept slipping deeper and deeper, soaking his shoes, and subsequently his socks. His pants got stiff by the wetness of the snow and the freezing cold.  
 

After he walked yet another fifteen minutes, and another, and another, he started throwing suspicious glares towards the top of the mountain, which seemed to be still as high as it was when he left, and the valley appeared to be just as deep as well. Slowly, he started wondering just what the mountain’s deal was. It couldn’t have possibly been more than four kilometres to the top, and Derek was sure he had at least done five.  
 

Distrustingly, he kept going.  
 

He felt the need to pull his jacket off, but considering the fact that he was sweating, and it was freezing, he figured that would be both stupid and dangerous. So he bravely laboured on.  
 

Derek did his utmost best to keep following the bus’ trail, but where the wheels had been, the snow was so hard and slippery that he had to delve into his repertoire of most impressive acrobatic poses, and if he failed to execute them, he’d skid off the road all the way into the snow piles.  
 

When he reached the next turn of the road, he stopped for a moment in pure doubt. His eyes trailed towards his wet shoes, his shapeless dress pants, and thoughtfully scratched his stubble. He couldn’t even see the castle anymore.  
 

He stood there for a couple of minutes, then he got cold again, and continued his walk.  
 

Derek remembered what the bus driver had said, and he silently cursed himself. An idiot. He was a pure-blooded idiot, that’s for sure. Why hadn’t he just taken the bus? He would be in Sankt Moritz for two months, for God’s sake, he’d have plenty of time to go hiking. His new shoes, his dress pants… He was an idiot.  
 

As he angrily stomped through the snow, he heard a car coming up. In a hurry to get out of the way, his leg slipped and he fell onto his back and into the snow. The car instantly stopped, next, a boy ran towards him. “Did you fall?”  
 

Derek glared at him when he saw the boy could barely hold in his laughter.  
 

“No,” he sharply bit. “I sat myself down so I could rest.”  
 

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” the guy said. “My bad.” His voice made it obvious the boy wasn’t feeling even remotely sorry.  
 

With a grunt, Derek pulled himself back up on his feet.  


“Did you come all the way up here with those clothes?” The guy marvelled.  
 

“Yes,” Derek grumpily replied. “Something wrong with that?”  
 

“Why didn’t you take the bus?”  
 

Apparently everyone knew you should take the bus to go up the mountain.  
 

“I missed it,” he stubbornly lied.  
 

“So why didn’t you take a cab? They’re right next to the station.”  
 

“There weren’t any left.”  
 

The guy smiled curiously at him. Derek saw he didn’t believe him at all, and wondered why the Hell he had actually been stupid enough to attempt to go up by foot. Derek bitterly grabbed at his suitcase.  
 

“Wanna ride along for the rest of the way up?” the guy asked. “There’s plenty of room.”  
 

“No,” Derek snapped while gathering any and all dignity he had left, looking further down the road again. He turned back around soon enough, suspiciously so. “Is it still far? The Deaton Institute?”  
 

“Eight or so kilometres.”  
 

Derek eyed him with surprise. “Eight? Eight kilometres? From here on eight kilometres?”  
 

“Yeah.”  
 

“How in the world does this road even go?”  
 

“Around the valley,” the boy said. “The Institute is located over there,” he pointed in the opposite direction of where the road was leading. “On the other side.”  
 

“Can’t the road go there directly?”  
 

“It can now, over the frozen lake. But in the summer that ice melts.” He looked at Derek again. “The distance is only fourteen kilometres.”  
 

“That’s ten too many!” Derek burst. “Why can’t they put a signpost or something near the station? What kind of country is this?”  
 

He angrily threw his suitcase inside the car and entered with a huff. As he did so, he bumped his foot against the side of the vehicle and nearly stumbled gracelessly inside. Luckily, he was able to hold on to the front seat. He banged his knee against _something_ , and let out an undignified “ouch!”. Derek then shot him a heated look to see if the boy was laughing at him.  
 

Quickly, the guy cast his eyes down, biting his bottom lip.  
 

They didn’t say a word as the motor revved alive and they took off. Derek watched as they whizzed past the trees.  
 

After a moment, Derek felt calmed down enough to allow his eyes to stray towards the boy. He was wearing a dark ski suit, and a matching dark beenie with a bobble that surrounded his head like a halo. Yet another moment later, the boy looked back at Derek and saw him moping.  
 

He said, his voice a little hesitant, “It’s the mountain, you know. It’s too steep. The road can’t go in a straight line, it zigzags instead. Otherwise the bus wouldn’t be able to get to the top.”  
 

Derek didn’t reply and kept his gaze stubbornly on the road in front of them.  
 

“That’s why this mountain is so awesome for skiing,” he continued, and for a second Derek wondered if maybe the guy just didn’t know how to shut up. “You can go as fast as you want, really.”  
 

“And they couldn’t have said that earlier?” Derek asked grumpily. “If they had just put up a sign, or a plank, or _something_ , then I never would’ve even begun.”  
 

The boy frowned at Derek’s tone of voice, but that frown easily made room for a grin. “There _is_ a sign, you know.”  
 

Derek glared at him, and the boy just laughed as he focused his attention back solely on the road.  
 

As silence overtook them again, Derek found his eyes unconsciously resting back on the boy, and his nose, his bow-shaped lips, curling up to hide a cheeky grin in the corners. And his moles, leading all the way down his throat until they disappeared into his ski suit. Derek nervously pulled at his own coat. He wanted to talk to the boy, decently this time, but every time the boy turned his head towards him and his big doe eyes met Derek’s, Derek looked away again.  
 

Then it started snowing. Soft, white, cottony flakes that made the woods even more fairy tale like. An hour ago, it would have enraptured Derek. Now, he felt perfectly indifferent.  
 

He opened his mouth to say something, maybe apologise, but then he saw the boy’s sparkling eyes and it confused him. Eventually, after another two or three attempts, he got annoyed by the confusion, and impatiently said: “Oh, well.”  
 

And that was it. That’s all he knew to say.  
 

The guy looked at him curiously and asked: “What?”  
 

Derek awkwardly eyed his feet, searching for words. Then he said, silently and slightly in a grumble: “I’m sorry. I was rude.”  
 

The boy started laughing then. “That’s okay, man. I would’ve acted like an ass, too, if I had been stupid enough to _walk_ all the way up.” He kept looking at Derek, and Derek realised the boy had brown eyes. Not just any brown, but amber. No. Whiskey. He made an instant mental note not to look into them for too long, because they’d most definitely make him drunk.  
 

“We’re in the same boat, you and I.” The boy said, pulling Derek out of his thoughts. “I enrolled as well.”  
 

One of Derek’s eyebrows arched up. “What?”  
 

“The Deaton Institute? I’m going, too.”  
 

Derek wanted to laugh, and maybe explain: ‘I’m not here as a student, you know. I’m here as professor.’ But he didn’t. There was something inside keeping him from doing so, but he didn’t know what. Maybe he feared the boy would turn all formal and distant if he found out he was a professor? So he decided not to say anything, figuring it would turn out to be a funny surprise when tomorrow they’re — who knows maybe together — walking to class, and he finds out who and what he is.

   
“My name is Stiles Stilinski,” the boy said. “I’m from Poland, but I’ve been living in San Fransisco for a few years now.”

   
Derek loved his simple, energetic way of talking. Stiles reached out his hand, which Derek shook as he said: “Hale. Derek Hale. New York.”

   
The heat of Stiles’ hand warmed him up to the core, and when Stiles smiled, he couldn’t help but smile back.

   
Then two skiers raced down the road in full speed, rocking light and elegantly through their knees.

   
“Oh, that’s Scott and Isaac!” Stiles exclaimed. He stopped the car and rolled down his window. “Scott! Isaac! Stop!”

   
The two boys recognised him and did exactly as their friend told him to.

   
“Stiles!” The one with the curls smiled broadly as he leaned against the car. “Where you’ve been?”

   
“In the valley, waiting for the train,” Stiles simply replied.

   
“Did you see him?” The other boy asked, leaning even closer than the other one.

   
“Nope,” Stiles popped the ‘p’, pulling Derek’s attention fully to his lips.

   
“That’s weird,” the guy with the curls said. “All other years he’s always arrived in that train. Tomorrow morning is the start of the courses, and there’s no other train coming in from Vienna today.”

   
The other boy laughed. “Maybe he found out what you’re planning on doing to him.”

   
“Nonsense,” Stiles grinned.

   
“Just call Deaton,” the first guy said. “Ask him what’s up with Mann. Everyone has already arrived. Only he hasn’t yet.”

   
“Call.” Stiles pointed both fingers up as if they were guns, then clacked his tongue. “Dinner upstairs tonight?” He asked while dropping his hands.

   
“Yeah.” Guy number two nodded. “We’ll be back by then. We’re going to arrange the booze for tomorrow first.”

   
“How are you going to get back up?” Stiles inquired, pulling his phone out to look at the time.

   
“We’re gonna let the seven o’ clock bus pull us up.”

   
“You’re going to steal my genius method? I thought you found that too dangerous?” Stiles grinned.

   
The guy with the curls shot a grin in return. “Yeah yeah, we worship the ground you walk on, oh mad genius.”  
 

“As long as you know who has the brains in this limited circle of friends.”  
 

“Lydia, probably,” The second guy interjected, finally joining the grinning-club.  
 

“Shut up,” Stiles shot. His smile didn’t falter though. “And don’t break your necks on the way down, I’m planning on winning this bet.”  
 

“Not a chance, sweet cheeks. I know the old Mann,” Curls confidently said.  
 

It didn’t faze Stiles one bit. “We’ll see.”  
 

Then both guys looked expectantly in Derek’s direction.  
 

“Oh, right.” Stiles snapped his fingers. “Dude was dragging himself up the mountain with nothing but low shoes, dress pants, a jacket, and a suitcase.”  
 

Derek felt himself turn red underneath the smiling, curious gazes.  
 

“Isaac Lahey and Scott McCall, California,” Stiles said, pointing at Curls and Guy Number Two respectively. Then he turned back to Isaac and Scott. “That’s Hale, Derek Hale,” he said mockingly in the exact tone Derek had used.  
 

Derek nodded in their direction, receiving a polite nod from the both of them in return.  
 

“Later, Stiles. We’ll see you for dinner,” Scott then said. He gave himself a push with his ski poles, and slid his way down the road. Isaac followed him as Stiles rolled his window back up.  
 

“What was that about Mann?” Derek suspiciously asked. “Is that professor Mann you’re talking about?”  
 

“Yeah!” Stiles smiled enthusiastically as he shifted gears. “You know him?”  
 

“A little.” Derek couldn’t help but frown. “Were you in the valley to pick him up?”  
 

Stiles licked his lips absentmindedly before replying. “Yes.” Then he curled his lips into a dangerous smile and said: “We argued last night. Scott is like my brother, and Isaac’s one of my best friends,” Stiles explained. “And Scott claimed that a man, if he seriously deflects, can’t ever be conquered — yeah, he actually used that word — by someone else.” He rolled his eyes, obviously not agreeing. “So I asked him if it worked the other way around as well, and he said that if a man — and if he really, really tried — woos a woman, she can’t help but fall for him.”  
 

Derek frowned at that, because it sounded like the words of a cocky teenager, thinking he’s all that, when in reality he still has so much more to learn.  
 

Stiles licked his lips again before continuing. “Either way, we didn’t agree, so we made a bet.”  
 

“And that bet has something to do with professor Mann?”  
 

“Yeah. I dared Scott. Appoint me someone, doesn’t matter who, and I’ll make them fall in love with me by the end of the month. Then choose another, without telling me who, and give them the task of making me fall for them; they won’t succeed.” Stiles bit his lip, slowly dragging it in with his teeth. “If I lose, I’m buying them dinner — seven courses — with champagne, if I win, they pay. They accepted. And they decided to give me one of the professors of the Institute as victim. So they hung up the program, we blindfolded Isaac, and he threw a dart. The dart got stuck on History of Literature, and that’s Mann.”  
 

“Mann’s like sixty years old,” Derek stated, in case Stiles hadn’t realised that yet. “And a man.”  
 

“You think that matters? I don’t discriminate, dude.” Stiles raised an eyebrow himself, which was less impressive than Derek’s eyebrow game, but still impressive nonetheless. “Babe, the most romantic people are men older than sixty.”  
 

Derek’s stomach did a flip at the pet name. It might have been used jokingly, but it prickled his nerves either way.  
 

“I once had a sixty-five-year old man pursue me for two weeks in Italy. I swear to you I’ve never had so much fun in my life.”  
 

“So,” Derek suddenly had a hard time swallowing. “Men?”  
 

That’s when Stiles’ eyebrows went as high up as possible. “That a problem for you?”  
 

“No, no!” He nearly choked his answer out. No way in Hell did he want Stiles to think he had a problem with men liking men. If anything. “But… Mann isn’t here.”  
 

“Maybe he’s sick,” Stiles shrugged. “We’ll see how it is later. And if he doesn’t show up, someone else will take over his class. Then whoever that is will be at the receiving end. Like I said, I don’t discriminate.”  
 

“Oh…” Derek smartly replied. The tingle in his stomach didn’t disappear, and it annoyed him. It annoyed him a lot.  
 

After a while he asked: “Who’s been appointed to pursue you?”  
 

“I don’t know. I can’t know. But I’ll notice soon enough.”  
 

Derek let that sink in for a moment before looking back at the boy. “You know, that’s actually not a fair bet.”  
 

“I know,” Stiles said. “But it doesn’t have to get too serious. It’s just a joke.”  
 

“Yes, but that’s not what I meant,” Derek continued. “It’s not fair that _you_ partake in the bet.”  
 

“And why not?”  
 

“You want to prove that just about anyone can make a man fall for them.”  
 

“Well?”  
 

“You’re not _just anyone_.”  
 

“What are you trying to say, man?” Stiles’ voice started growing edgy, close to annoyed.  
 

“I’m trying to say it’s not fair. You’re too handsome. If you win, you didn’t prove anything.”  
 

Stiles looked at him, big eyes, smile tugging his lips up and pulling in Derek’s eyes.  
 

“Is that your way of making up how rude you were before I let you inside my car?”  
 

“No,” Derek said. “I mean it.”  
 

Stiles averted his gaze, pointedly keeping them on the road. “Thanks,” he muttered in a small voice.  
 

Derek looked at him for a while again, observing Stiles’ long fingers curling around the steering wheel, noticing the tick in the boy’s legs as if he couldn’t contain himself fully; too much energy, too small body. And eventually that damned tongue sliding over those cursed lips once more before Stiles asked: “So you’re from New York?”

  
He nodded as he fully settled back into his seat. “Yes.”  
 

“What’s your major?”  
 

Technically, he’s not lying as he said: “Art History.”  
 

Stiles hummed. “You look a bit old to still be a student though. Are you going for a doctorate? Figuring you might as well pick up a winter course to stay up-to-date with the ever developing history?” He let out a silent laugh. “No really, man. Why?”  
 

“Oh… Well… You see…”  
 

“Yeah,” Stiles sighed. “I do see.” He threw Derek a sympathetic smile. “Your parents sent you here, right? My Dad’s dragged me here for the second time now. Older people really care about standing. If you visit Stanford, you have standing. Oxford after that? Even more standing. Then a few winters at Deaton’s, and you’re all ready for the high society.” Stiles ended that with another sigh. “So where are you staying?”  
 

“I’m not sure yet. Any recommendations?” Derek tried to keep his eyes on the road instead of the boy, but he kept failing miserably.  
 

“Prinzenhof is really good.”  
 

“Is that where you’re staying?”  
 

“No.”  
 

“Well, where are you staying?”  
 

Stiles laughed and said: “Belle-vue. Why do you keep looking at me like that?”  
 

“Oh, just,” Derek tore his eyes away, a hint of embarrassment in his voice. “Nothing.” 

 


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa. So did not mean not to update for a few weeks. But you know. Life. It tends to creep up on you when you least expect it to. It sucks, but look, here's the next chapter!
> 
> Genuinely sorry if this chapter's boring, but if it makes you feel any better: next chapter is a very sterek-y chapter. Sshhh though, you didn't hear it from me. Also, I already typed like half of the next chapter, and the second I finish it, I'll post it. Kind of a lousy way of me trying to make up for not having updated despite having said I'd update every week. I seriously suck at deadlines, also at making excuses for not making said deadlines. 
> 
> Anyway, without further ado, chapter two (that rhymes!).

 

There was a lot going on in hotel ‘Belle-Vue’. Young people entering, entirely dusted with snow, messy hair, cheeks flushed by the cold. They kicked the snow off their boots before going inside and handing over their skis to the bellboy. Then, naturally, they all headed for the bar to drink something warm and to tell each other about their adventures of the day. 

   
Of course the hotel houses more than just one generation. The older people, sitting in the sofas or at little round tables while drinking Martinis, played cards, or talked, or simply said nothing and felt perfectly happy just being there, together. Most of them were regulars and came back nearly every year. Some even saw each other again during the summer somewhere in Monte Carlo or Nice, and were just as comfortable around each other as one would be with their neighbours in a small town.   
 

Most importantly, there was the Colonel, who was practically always a little bit drunk, and courted present women with a charming elegance. It annoyed a lot of people, or at least that what they pretended to be, because when push came to shove, everyone had to admit the Colonel was one of the most endearing men in the entire hotel. The most amazing stories were told about him; romantic adventures from when he was still a Lieutenant, and more recent stories dating from right after his marriage with Countess Chanterelle from France, when he, as Major, had been granted access to the most renowned social circles in Paris. And all those stories, being told from left to right in hushed voices and excited whispers, only added to his attractiveness, even though no one dared to confess to that out loud. He’s sixty years old now, and had been a widower for nearly twenty years. He may be balding a bit, and he may be gathering a few pounds from the many, many luxurious dinners, but he hadn’t lost any of his gracious amiability, and nothing of his deep, loving adoration for the beautiful women, who had been responsible for both the happiest and most miserable moments of his life. He only had one flaw, and that was his curiosity, especially when it came down to love. He paid close attention, with the eyes of a specialist, to the growing relationships in the hotel. He was delighted by some budding romances, annoyed by others, and meddled with all.  
 

He trudged down the stairs with a light, bobbing step that surrounded his movements in a special elegant glow. He had slept all afternoon; he always did that. Because in his eyes, the afternoon was the most pesky thing ever. An afternoon only served as a time where one does nothing but sit around, start dozing off, and drowsily talk while helping yourself to a cup of coffee and waiting for it to be five o’ clock. Because five o’ clock meant that you could start drinking cocktails without anyone judging you for it being ‘too early’. Hence the Colonel’s strategic disappearing between two and five o’ clock.  
 

At the bottom of the stairs, he halted, eyes roaming around the hall. That’s when his gaze landed on Mrs Krasikeva, who was married to a French diplomat, but had never once brought him along to the hotel. She always wore dark, tight-fitting dresses that most definitely complimented her slim figure, and she had long pitch-black hair, cascading down her shoulder in big waves. When she saw the Colonel, she beckoned him with her finger. She was playing cards with three other men. “Colonel, I lost my powder box. What are you going to do to find it again?”  
 

“Is there a new guest in the hotel?” The Colonel asked as he joined her at her table. 

   
“Why do you ask?”

   
“Because if that’s the case, I’d try searching near his room.”

   
“Why?”

   
“When I first arrived here, I found your purse near my door. When the Count of Tosny arrived, he found your lighter, and when the young Reynolds appeared, he stumbled on one of your silver slippers in the hallway. On all three items, the most beautiful name of all names was engraved in gold: Paige Krasikeva. And for all three of us, it’d been the beginning of a sweet, but hopeless romance.”

   
“Colonel!” Mrs Krasikeva let out, a happy, admonitory smile following suit. 

   
“I know a riddle,” the Colonel said. “It’s pretty, it blinks, it has no heart, and whoever dares to touch it, burns himself. What is what?”  
 

“Hm, hm,” the three men coughed.  
 

“An oil lamp,” the Colonel revealed.   
 

“Oh…” Mrs Krasikeva pursed her lips.  
 

“Yes,” he nodded. “And here is your powder box.”  


The woman perked up again. “Where did you find it?” She asked in wonder as she accepted the box.  
 

“I didn’t find it, I stole it. I felt lonely and miserable this afternoon. I took the box and placed it next to me on my pillow. I slept in a cloud of one of the loveliest perfumes, and I will tell you what I dreamt about.” the Colonel said, his voice as empty as the look in his eyes. Sarcasm; he was acquainted.  
 

Mrs Krasikeva opened her mouth to say something, but the Colonel pulled himself up and out of his chair. “Oh, look. Mrs McCall. Excuse me.” And he walked off.  
 

With long strides, he crossed the hallway in record time. The mild scent of alcohol wafting past him as he entered the bar lounge where Mrs McCall was playing patience with the Sheriff.   
 

“Mrs McCall,” the Colonel said reproachfully, “there’s a wrinkle above your right eye that wasn’t there yet this morning. Would you care to explain, to the unhappiest of your admirers, who has that crime on their baneful conscience?”  
 

Mrs McCall quietly continued her game until she had made an entire row, and then she said: “I’m worried about Stiles. How long have I known you, Colonel?”  
 

“Well…” the Colonel hummed as he sat himself down next to the Sheriff, “about nineteen years, give or take one year.”  
 

“Then it’s not possible.”  
 

“What’s not possible, Mrs McCall?”  
 

“Stiles is twenty-two. Philosophers say that kids not only inherit their parents’ personality, but also that of the friends the parents frequent.” She hikes up one eyebrow. “Stiles is starting to show signs of frivolity. I’m wondering who he has it from.” She said all of that without looking up from her cards.   
 

“I’d say he has it from his father,” the Colonel nodded. “He’s placing a Jack on top of a Queen. If _that_ isn’t frivolous, then I don’t know what is.”  
 

The Sheriff chuckled softly as he pulled back his card.   
 

“Where _is_ Stiles, anyway?” the Colonel asked, forever interested in the whereabouts of his forever unsubtle favourite person.  
 

“He went down to the valley by car. He never does that without reason,” the Sheriff answered, a thoughtful frown folding his forehead.   
 

“There he is,” the Colonel piped up. “And not alone! Look at how much fun they’re having!”  
 

Mrs McCall finally looked up from her cards and saw Stiles entering the hotel with a man, who appeared to be saying something funny, because they both started roaring with laughter. Stiles then guided him to the reception desk, where the man could check in. Once he proceeded to head up together with the man, she called for him.  
 

The boy turned around and saw her. “Oh, Melissa,” he said, and he turned back to the man. “You’ll be fine finding your room? Up the stairs, all the way to the second floor, first hallway to the left, and then one of the doors somewhere probably on your right.” He then pointed to the man’s legs: “And you might want to do something about that pants of yours, Deaton’s pretty strict when it comes down to stuff like that.”   
 

Derek let his eyes drop to the bottom of his trousers, and gravely shook his head. “That’s the only dress pants I brought.” He raised his head so he could lock eyes again. “But I’ll figure something out.”  
 

They waved each other off, and Derek started up the stairs as Stiles joined his father and Melissa at their table.   
 

“Who’s that?” Melissa asked sceptically.  
 

“New guest,” Stiles shrugged. “I picked him up on the way back.” His lips quirked lightly into a smile as he seemed to think of something. He quickly shook it off though. “Hey, you guys wouldn’t happen to have heard anything about Mann yet, have you?”  
 

“Mann?” Mrs McCall’s suspicion rose by the second. “Why are you asking about Mann?”  
 

“Oh, just because,” Stiles smiled as he carded his hands through his hair, only messing it up even more.  
 

“No pranks, you hear me?” Melissa raised one finger at him, ready to reprimand him if necessary.   
 

“Oh, Melissa,” Stiles clutched his hands to his heart, feigning hurt. “You wound me. How could you ever accuse me of such childish behaviour?”  
 

“Because you don’t do anything _but_ engaging in childish behaviour!” Mrs McCall quietly hissed, but it didn’t sound nearly as heated as she would have liked. “Also, I’ve heard it through the grapevine… You’re planning something, aren’t you?”  
 

The Sheriff sighed. “Just let them be. They’re still young. They’ll have plenty of time to be all serious once they’re married.”  
 

Stiles nodded. “The ol’ ball and chain.”  
 

“Dear John,” the Colonel started, “you’re wrong there. Marriage, you know—”  
 

“Later,” Mrs McCall interrupted, appearing to know more about marriages than the Colonel. Her attention still focused on Stiles. “Stiles, it’s about time you start getting more serious. You do nothing but flirt and party and prank. It can’t keep going on like that, nothing good is going to come of it.”  
 

Stiles drew his bottom lip in before muttering, “Scott’s also—”  
 

“ _Scott_ is in a committed relationship with Allison, they have been together for four years now. Soon, he’s going to marry and they’ll have kids. Scott is being plenty serious.”  
 

Stiles rolled his eyes, dropping his head backwards in a groan. The international sign of ‘please stop you’re killing me drop this subject for the sake of humanity good Lord have mercy on my maybe not so innocent soul’.  
 

“So what _are_ you going to do with Mann?” his dad asked, pretending the whole ‘Stiles it’s time for you to be more serious’-spiel didn’t happen. Classic dad.   
 

Stiles straightened up again, smile back in place. He was about to say something when three guys stumbled into the bar, which sounded a lot like the beginning of a good joke, Stiles thought.  
 

“He’s not here yet. Deaton says he’ll call to New York if he doesn’t arrive with the next bus.”  
 

A second said, “If he’s not coming, he’ll probably call in Chartier, of Sorbonne.”   
 

Stiles shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to me.”  
 

The guy leaned in closer and whispered in his ear: “Chartier’s a monk.”  
 

“The Lord works in mysterious ways!” Stiles grinned.   
  


The guys laughed loudly, one of them yelling “A bet is a bet!” as they left the bar with as much noise as when they had stumbled inside.  


Melissa narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “Are you going to tell me, or am I going to have to wring it out of Scott?”  
 

“Well,” Stiles huffed, leaning back in his chair, “you’re going to find out anyway.” He then told about his bet with Scott, and when he finished, he said: “So I have to cozy up to Mann, or his poor, old replacement; and someone else — I can’t know who it is, them’s the rules — has to try to do the same to me. I’m sure I’ll be able to handle Mann, but you’ll have to help me,” he turned to the Colonel. “Especially you, Colonel. You get involved in everything, so you’ll easily find out who they appointed to chase me. Tell me when you know, so I can do some good old mind-gaming for both your and my entertainment.”  
 

“Who says it’s not me?” The Colonel asked.  
 

Stiles looked at him for a moment, and then he grinned. “If that’s the case, I lost already.”  
 

“Sweet, sweet boy,” the Colonel crooned, feeling flattered and happy. “If I had ten billion—”  
 

“You don’t have ten billion dollars, Colonel,” Mrs McCall interrupted again. “Stiles,” she raised her finger once more. “You will not take that bet.”  
 

“Too late,” Stiles shrugged.  
 

“But Stiles,” Melissa dropped her hand, worry creasing her brows. “What will Lydia say?”  
 

“Lydia?”   
 

“Lydia Martin, your fiancé.”  
 

Stiles rolled his eyes once again, more petulantly this time. “Lydia Martin is not my fiancé!” He protested.  
 

“She’s a very decent young girl,” Mrs McCall said, adjusting her posture a bit. “She comes from a very decent family, and will have more than a very decent job in her future.”  
 

“I never claimed anything else, Melissa,” Stiles sighed.  
 

“Well, then?”  
 

He shook his head unhappily. “You know, Lydia is amazing, she is! But she’s so… so… I don’t know… She always talks so intelligently, so dignified, so seriously. If we go walking together, I feel like a good little boy holding his mother’s hand, and if I behave, I may or may not get an ice cream after.”  
 

“That’s ridiculous,” Melissa huffed.   
 

“Melissa,” the Sheriff placed one hand gently on her arm. “There’s no hurry here. Stiles is only twenty-two. Let him choose whoever he wants himself. He’s a smart kid, he knows what’s good for him.”  
 

Stiles shot his father a grateful smile that the older accepted with a similar small smile back.  
 

“It’s the parents’ duty to look out for their children’s happiness,” Melissa said.  
 

He couldn’t help it but tense. Stiles had to do his utmost best not to say “you’re not my mother” out loud. He’d done that before, and it had hurt Melissa more than Stiles had ever intended, let alone wanted to. It simply was a weird situation. Stiles and Scott are bros, even closer bros now that Stiles moved to San Fransisco. Evidently that meant spending loads of time at each other’s house, which evolved into dinners to which, in case it was at the McCall household, Stiles’ dad was invited, and when it was at the Stilinski house, Melissa was invited in return. Before Stiles full and well realised, they had become a close-knit family-like bunch of people. Two broken families trying to make one whole. It’s not like Stiles could have protested, because hello, Scott has feelings, too. Objecting to whatever they were, and _whatever_ their parents were, would have been not okay on so many levels. So Stiles had decided to let it go. Everything was fine. His father was happier, Stiles got to spend more time with his best friend, and… Well, what else does one need? The only thing not perfect about their situation was how Melissa had somehow decided to not only be Scott’s mother, but also Stiles’, which was something Stiles couldn’t, and wouldn’t deal with. So after the slip-up a few years ago, he ignored it to the best of his abilities.  
 

“And that’s exactly _why_ , Melissa. To protect their happiness, we shouldn’t take it from them.”  
 

“Marriage…” The Colonel tried, but just like the previous time, Mrs McCall cut him off.  
 

Her face lit up, her hand waving someone over. “Oh, Lydia!”  
 

A young girl looked up, and came up to them, a smile gracing her lips. There was something calculating in her eyes as her gaze fell on Stiles, who merely rolled his eyes for what felt like the hundredth time in the last ten minutes. She tucked a book under her arms while reaching her free hand out to shake Melissa’s.  
 

“Lydia,” Melissa smiled — a smile Stiles for some reason didn’t like very much at that moment. “Would you like to have dinner with us this evening?”  
 

“I’d be honoured,” Lydia solemnly said before turning to the rest of the table and shaking their hands, too. “Sheriff… Colonel… Stiles.” There was a light tick in her voice when she greeted Stiles.  
 

“What are you reading?” Mrs McCall asked as she carefully pulled at the book in Lydia’s arms. “ _The road to success._ Oh, Stiles, didn’t you read that as well?”  
 

“No,” Stiles said, not interested, and dying to leave.  
 

“How are you liking it?” Melissa thumbed through the pages, seemingly curious.  
 

Lydia eyed Stiles for a moment, her lips twitching briefly before sitting down. “Not exactly light reading,” she started, more in lieu of a warning than an actual opinion. “It’s about the psychology of success, built on a character analysis of human nature, and a social economic description of the world structure.” Her eyes swiftly shifted to Stiles, then back to Melissa. Thinking better of continuing her ramble about the book, she stopped talking.  
 

“Would you recommend it?” Melissa asked.  
 

“Well…” Lydia hesitantly started, no longer daring to chance a look at Stiles.   
 

But before she could continue, the Colonel yawned. “Right. Excuse me,” he said, already standing up, ready to leave. “Oh, and Stiles, could you do me a favour?”  
 

A nod. “Sure.”  
 

“Follow me.” The Colonel flicked his head in a brusque movement, making Stiles wonder if something hadn’t shot up in the old man’s neck. Judging by the way his hand reached upwards, and how he started rubbing at it, Stiles figured he had his answer right there.  
 

Even so, he eagerly stood up. “Definitely sure.”  
 

Once they were in the hallway, and far enough so Mrs McCall certainly wouldn’t be able to hear them, Stiles asked. “What do you need me to do?”  
 

“Promise me something.”  
 

“Hmm?”  
 

“Never marry someone you don’t love to the core.”  
 

Stiles smirked. “Is that what you dragged me away from the table for?”  
 

“Yes.”  
 

“Good thinking. I knew I liked you for a reason,” Stiles approved. Then he promptly turned on his feet.  
 

“Where are you going?” Curious Colonel pried.  
 

“The kitchen.”   
 

Stiles was already halfway when the Colonel asked “What are you going to do there?”, so he had to raise his voice a bit. He hoped Melissa hadn’t heard him.  
 

“Going to get a flatiron!” And gone was Stiles.  
 

“A flatiron?” The Colonel wondered. He kept his eyes a while longer on the door Stiles had disappeared through before he caught on. Then he slowly shook his head, smiling by himself.  
 


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said I was going to update soon? Ha.
> 
> So I've been seriously underestimating how busy this year was going to be? I've got a ton of projects going on, and if they didn't result in, you know, grades, then I probably wouldn't even bother. But I kind of want to graduate, so.
> 
> I seriously want to promise the next chapter will be up soon, but let's not kid ourselves and not make promises we won't be able to keep. That's why I'm just going to promise I'll definitely update whenever I can, or whenever I just can't with college and write instead of being a productive student. Another promise? I'll finish this story for sure, okay. So absolutely no worries there. You get to worry about a lot of things, but this fic not being finished? Not one of them.
> 
> Also, if you're feeling chatty, you can always pop in and leave me a message on my tumblr; igotdamn.tumblr.com, because no matter how little time I actually have, I often find myself mindlessly scrolling and liking and reblogging, surrounded by a cloud of guilt because my name is actually Princess of Procrastination.
> 
> Anyway. To the people that bother reading notes: I hope you enjoy this chapter, and if you feel like it, leave me a little comment/feedback!

Derek was standing in the middle of his room, looking worriedly at his dress pants. He’d pulled them off and held it unfolded in front of him. His shoes had been filled with crumpled up newspaper and were left in front of the fireplace to dry, his jacket on a clothing hanger in the hope it would regain the right shape, and he’d thrown his socks somewhere in a corner, deeming them done for. It didn’t matter that much anyway, he’d brought two more pairs with him. But what he didn’t know, was what in the world he was supposed to do about his pants.

  
He briefly thought about asking a maid downstairs if she could iron it or something, but he didn’t think he had the guts to simply march down the stairs in nothing but a shirt. Or maybe he could make someone come upstairs instead, while he was in his underwear?

  
Back in New York, he would wet the folds of the pants and put them underneath his mattress so they're dried and pressed in the morning. He could do that now as well, but it was already six o’ clock, and he had to officially register at the Deaton Institute at seven, so. Half an hour was barely enough time to get the pants to dry.

  
Unless… Maybe… He looked around the room and squatted down in front of the fireplace. With the back of his hand, he pressed against the floor. It was hot. He brushed the top of his finger over it to see if it was clean. It wasn’t perfectly clear, but he simply tugged the rug from in front of the couch closer, and wiped the dust away. He then placed his pants expertly on the hot floor, pulled the pant legs just the way he liked, before lying down belly-first on top of them. The pants were freezing, and he shuddered when the wet coldness seeped into his shirt. But with the warmth of the floor, everything would be dry soon anyway, so he tried not to pay too much attention to it. He pressed as hard as he could, occasionally moving back and forth to mimic the ironing movement.

  
After about ten minutes of doing just that, he started to sweat. His left cheek, and his left jaw, and his left arm and left leg glowing red because of the radiating heat of the fireplace. And then he suddenly heard someone knocking his door.

  
“Yes,” he yelled out of habit. But then he remembered his current position, panic coursing through him as he hurriedly barked: “No! No! Don’t come in!”

  
Alas, he was too late. The door opened and Stiles entered.

  
“Oh!” He let out, more amused than surprised when he saw Derek lying on the floor in his shirt, practically riding his pants.

  
Then he burst out in a loud guffaw, and asked while closing the door behind him: “What are you doing? Practising certain skills?”

  
Derek quickly pushed himself up on his arms before lowering, then pushing up again. “Exercising,” he said. “It’s good for your health, especially after sitting in the train for hours and hours.” Eventually, he pushed all the way up and got back on his feet. “And I don’t need any practice,” Derek added in a mutter. “My skills are just fine.”

  
“I can’t just take a stranger on his word, you know,” Stiles smirked. “I need proof.”

  
For a moment there, Derek found himself to be speechless. He felt his heart skipping more than one beat and he couldn’t help but watch the boy. Those sinful lips curling up in that way Derek quickly felt should be prohibited by law. Stiles should be put behind bars, or handcuffed, at least. Maybe to his bedpost. Preferably naked.

  
As if knowing what Derek was thinking, Stiles’ smile grew. He took a few steps closer until he was right in front of Derek. His heartbeat racing, nearly threatening to explode right then and there, and then Stiles freaking got _on his knees_. Those enticing eyes locked with his and Derek could only hope Stiles couldn’t hear Derek’s blood rushing South as if it couldn’t get there fast enough. He gulped loudly when the boy opened his mouth.

  
“Poor man,” Stiles tutted, drawing in his lower lip with his teeth. “Look,” he started, and Derek wanted to say he _was looking_. How could he not? No way he would ever not. Then Stiles’ hand moved lower, and lower, and lower. All the way to the floor, nimble fingers curling around Derek’s pants. Next, Stiles shot back up on his feet in no time, waving Derek’s pants in one hand, a flatiron in the other. “I brought you a flatiron, don’t you think that’ll do a better job?”

  
Derek swore he could see Stiles eyes take a cursory glance at the growing bulge in Derek’s black boxers. He flushed entirely red when he realised just how far his mind was in the gutter merely a few seconds ago. Then that same confusion and subsequent annoyance he’d felt in the car took over. Confusion because why in the world was he feeling so strongly about a boy he didn’t even know? Confusion because where did those dirty thoughts come from? He hasn’t been interested in anyone for so long now, he barely even remembered what it felt like. And even so, he’s sure he’s never felt this much attraction to anyone before. And annoyance because the boy was a brat. An arrogant brat at that.

  
“Come on,” Stiles continued. “I’ll do it for you. In the mean time, you go take a bath or something, then we’ll be done together.”

  
Derek wished he had a witty response, a funny reaction, _something_ to get Stiles to smile that wicked smile again. But he didn’t, so he merely turned around and walked towards the bathroom. He popped his head back out the door and asked, somewhat suspicious: “ _Can_ you iron a pants?”

  
“Can I iron a pants,” Stiles scoffed, mock-offended. “ _Can I iron a pants?_ Everyone can iron pants, _Derek_. You simply lay the pants out on the table, place the iron on top of it, and press. Is there anything easier than that?”

  
“No, no,” Derek said, and retreated back into the bathroom.

  
So Stiles dropped the pants onto the table, plugged in the electric device, and started ironing. In the room next to him, he could hear the sounds of Derek splashing around in the bathtub.

  
“I’ve found you in an awkward position about two times now,” Stiles yelled. “I’m curious how I’ll find you next time.

  
Derek was covered in soap, ears and eyes filled with water, and he couldn’t hear or see anything. He rinsed his head, but couldn’t get the water out of his eyes. Making the mistake of giving up too soon, he stepped out of the bathtub and blindly reached for a towel. But he slipped on the wet floor, skidded backwards and pushed, with a deafening noise, a rack filled with tiny little soap bottles to the ground.

  
“What’s going on?” Stiles’ voice came. “Are you from the Department of Demolition?”

  
“I can’t find a towel,” Derek grumbled.

  
“Do you have one in your suitcase?”

  
“Yeah, pull one out. The green one first.”

  
With shut eyes, Derek tried to find the door, opened it slightly so he could push his arm out and accept the towel. After drying his face he could finally see again. He picked the rack and all other fallen things back up and put them neatly back in place. Then he turned around, and gladly allowed himself to finally sink into the warm water.

  
“Your pants pockets are full of stuff, can I get it out?”

  
“Yeah,” Derek turned to look at the door, noticing how he left it slightly ajar. “You can just throw it on the bed.”

  
Stiles pulled out a key, a bunch of change, and a wallet. He kept the wallet in his hands for a moment longer than he had the other things before placing it with the rest. He eyed the door skittishly, but when he saw Derek had pulled the door shut again, he picked the wallet back up and opened it. The first thing he saw, was a picture of a young woman with long blonde hair and a charming smile framing polished white teeth. _‘To Derek, love forever, Helena’_ , written at the bottom.

  
“How do you like her?” Derek, still in the bathroom, asked.

  
Stiles startled. Quickly, he shut the wallet and eyed the bathroom door. The door was still closed, so there was no way Derek could have seen him.

  
“How did you know I was looking?” He asked with suspicion.

  
“Everyone does,” he said, before hurriedly adding: “watch the iron. If you leave it on my pants, they'll burn.”

  
“Oh!” Stiles let out, running back to the table and pulling the iron off.

  
“Too late?”

  
“No, just in time.” Stiles brushed his fingers over the fabric, just to make sure.

  
“Now you can continue looking through my wallet,” Derek said.

  
Stiles laughed. “It was rude, so, sorry.”

  
It was silent for a moment before Stiles asked, his voice somewhat clipped: “Who’s Helena?”

  
“My aunt,” Derek replied.

  
“Oh,” the boy let out again, his eyes closing momentarily, silently laughing at himself while nodding softly.

  
“Not bad, huh?”

  
“No, not at all,” Stiles said. “I didn’t know such beautiful aunts even existed.”

  
“I’ll tell her, she’ll be glad. How’s the pants?”

  
“You can dry off, I’m done.”

  
Derek got up and carefully stepped over the edge of the tub. He towelled himself dry, put on a fresh pair of boxers, and pulled his dress shirt back on. Sticking one arm out the door again so Stiles could give him his pants.

  
“What do you think?” Stiles asked. “Can I iron or can I iron?”

  
When Derek didn’t respond, Stiles prompted again. “Well?”

  
Once more, no answer came. The door however opened fully and Derek appeared in the opening, wiggling on his heels and silently glaring at Stiles.

  
Stiles, upon seeing that, burst out laughing. “How in the world did you put on your pants? Do you need me to help you? I got a hand you can borrow. My right one happens to be extremely skilful at tugging —”

  
“Stiles.”

  
The boy’s eyes lowered one more time, finally seeing the creases weren’t straight, as they were supposed to be, but across instead. Even though it was obviously his fault, and _no_ , he could definitely _not_ iron a pants, Stiles simply shrugged and smiled coyly. “Got to say straight wouldn’t suit you anyway.”

  
Derek took a deep and calming breath. “Everyone can iron pants, Derek. You simply lay the pants out on the table, place the iron on top of it, and press. Is there anything easier than that?” He then muttered in a high voice.

  
“If that’s supposed to sound like me, you’re wrong, my voice can’t even go that high.” Stiles pulled up an eyebrow. “So it still sounds more like you than it ever would sound like me.”

  
“Come here,” Derek beckoned, as he slowly pulled his zipper down and lowered his pants before stepping out if it. “And sit down.” With an overly grand gesture, he swung the pants onto the table. “I’ll teach you.”

  
Instead of sitting down like Derek told him to, Stiles stepped closer to the table. Placing his hands on the opposite side of the table, eyes focused with interest on Derek’s fingers as the man pulled the pants in place.

  
“Now watch,” Derek said. “The pants has to lay sideways on the table. Not backwards. Sideways. Then you throw one leg up, and pull the other like this until the crotch is right in the middle before tugging it this way. Make sure that the crease is following this line; men’s clothes always follow vertical lines. Then you take a damped cloth.”

  
He looked around and saw a white embroidered tablecloth. Quickly, he snatched it off the bedside table and held it underneath the faucet in the bathroom before coming back.

  
“You place the damp cloth on the legs, put your iron on top of it, and wait until the cloth stops hissing. Then you move the cloth upwards, and repeat the process until you’ve done the entire pants. After that, because a pants needs wetness twice, the ironing only starts now. Like this, softly, no pushing; ironing.”

  
With caution, he glided the iron over the pant leg, back and forth, lightly pulling up the cloth to see the result, only removing it entirely when he’s content.

  
“You see?” He asked, triumphantly looking at Stiles. “But that’s not all, the hard part starts now. The top part of the pants is something you can’t explain, it’s a matter of feeling. You learn it as you go. Key is not to trust the shape of the fabric, because the pattern changes near the pockets.”

  
With slight amazement, Stiles watched Derek explain everything he did.

  
When Derek turned the pants over, he asked as he gestured the iron towards Stiles, “Do you want to try the other leg?”

  
“Nah, man, I’m good.”

  
Derek smiled at him, and for the second time that day, they were caught in a brief moment of gazing into each other eyes. For a flicker of a moment, Derek realised the air around them had shifted, and if he leaned closer just the tiniest bit, maybe —

  
Someone knocked, and the magic was broken.

  
“Open it,” Derek sighed. “But don’t let them in.”

  
For once, God bless him, Stiles actually did as he said, and only pulled the door open just enough so he could stick his head out. It was Mrs Krasikeva.

  
“Oh,” she said, “I thought… Isn’t this the room of Mr Hale?”

  
“It is,” Stiles replied.

  
Mrs Krasikeva frowned, questions ready to spill from her lips. “Is he here?”

  
“He is.”

  
“Well then, boy. Let me in. I wanted to ask him something.”

  
“Would you mind terribly coming back later? I’m afraid Mr Hale isn’t able to speak to you at this exact moment.”

  
The woman eyed him with renewed curiosity. Then she tried to look into the room over Stiles’ shoulder, to which Stiles reached out to touch her arm gently. “Later,” he promised. “Mr Hale will be downstairs for supper.” And then Stiles closed the door.

  
With a smile, he pressed his back against the door. Derek wanted to ask him something, but Stiles brought his finger to his lips in the universal way of saying ‘be quiet’. He waited a few moments, then opened the door, as if he wanted to leave. Mrs Krasikeva, bent over in the obvious position of having tried to eavesdrop, fell against him.

  
“Oh,” Stiles smiled faux-sweetly. “Did you lose something, Mrs Krasikeva?

  
“Yes… yes…” she said, red, and confused. “My gloves… I… I… maybe I forgot them downstairs. Excuse me.”

  
She rushed out of the hallway, and Stiles stepped back into the room.

  
“Who was that?” Derek asked, eyes wide.

  
“A friend of your brother’s.”

  
“A friend of my… I don’t have a brother.” Derek frowned.

  
“That doesn’t matter,” Stiles laughed, and boy, did Derek like Stiles’ laugh. “Every time a new guest arrives in the hotel, she goes up to the front desk and asks what his name is, and how old he is. Then she finds him excitedly, and says she has a good friend with the same name, and asks if maybe they’re his brother? And then he’ll say no, no, I don’t have a brother, or my brother doesn’t have that name. And then she’ll say: oh, excuse me then… I thought… Jean or Vincent or whatever is a very close friend of mine, and, you know, it would have been an honour to meet his brother. She’ll smile, she’ll blush, and she’ll pretend to be upset, until the man in question feels like he has to tell her he’s honoured to meet her either way, and then she’ll ask him if maybe he wants to go out for a drink.”

  
Derek laughed, too, and asked: “Is she…?”

  
“Yeah, very pretty. But don’t worry. She doesn’t have the habit to give up so quickly.”

  
Derek’s laughter ceased and his frown came back. He felt annoyed by how lightly Stiles was talking about it, like it didn’t matter to him at all. Then he realised he had no right whatsoever to feel so peeved about it, because he’d barely known the boy for a couple of hours. “Aren’t you afraid she’ll tell all sorts of nonsense downstairs?”

  
Stiles shrugged, careless smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “Babe, it wouldn’t be the worst thing people say about me.”

  
Again, Derek’s heart jumped at the pet name, then he gritted his teeth because he didn’t like what Stiles was implying. Where did this possessiveness even come from?

  
“Is that all of your luggage?” Stiles asked, pointing towards Derek’s suitcase on the bed.

  
“Yes.”

  
“Want me to help unpack?”

  
“That’s…” He wanted to say no. He wanted Stiles to leave because he felt having Stiles around was something he could easily get used to and it scared him how much he actually wanted it. He wanted Stiles to leave because he didn’t want to feel the way he felt. It was foreign, hence dangerous.

  
“Here,” Stiles threw a pair of socks at him. “Put them on, or you’ll get rheumatism.”

  
While Derek reluctantly allowed the wave of warmth of Stiles’ caring gesture to wash over him, the boy started unpacking. He placed his clothes in the closet, hung his jackets on hangers, and neatly arranged his toothbrush and shaving utensils near the sink in the bathroom. On the bottom of the suitcase, he found another picture of Helene. A big one this time, framed an all.

  
“On the bedside table,” Derek said.

  
Stiles’ eyes lingered for a second on the picture frame before smiling. Voice a bit distant when he spoke. “Aunt Helene has got to be quite a remarkable woman.”

  
“Why?” Derek asked.

  
“I’ve never loved my aunts so much, that I wanted their pictures near my bed.”

  
“Isn’t she pretty?” Derek’s voice tender.

  
“Yes. Extraordinarily so.” Then he finally tore his eyes away from the frame, and locked them with Derek’s instead. “Look, Derek. I’m going to go.”

  
“No, wait!” He let out before he realised. “Um, you’ve got to see my pants while I’m wearing it, you’ll be amazed!”

  
He ran back to the bathroom, which was a bit stupid considering he’d been in his boxers the entire time and it wasn’t like he had some secret way of putting on a pair of pants that he couldn’t share with Stiles.

  
“Well?” He asked when he walked back out, the palms of his hands stroking lovingly over the perfect creases.

  
Stiles sighed. “I admit defeat.” From where he was standing, the fireplace casted a warm glowing light from behind Stiles, making him look like an angel.

  
Derek kept looking at him, eyes attentive. “Your hair looks nearly bronze, like that. Have I already told you how much it suits you?”

  
“Don’t,” Stiles laughed. “Aunt Helene is going to frown when you give her the same compliment later this evening.”

  
“I don’t tell her stuff like that,” Derek said, slowly stepping closer and jokingly whispered: “She’s used to much more than that.”

  
“Right,” Stiles said, pulling away from Derek. “Like I said, I’m going.”

  
He headed towards the door, hand already on the knob and turning it as he said. “Just return the iron back to the front desk once you’re done.”

  
“How late is supper?” Derek asked, not wanting Stiles to leave just yet.

  
“Eight, maybe later.”

  
“Will I see you then?” He took a few steps closer, body unconsciously reaching for the warmth Stiles was taking with him.

  
“You’re not blind.”

  
“Luckily.”

  
Then Stiles shut the door behind him.


End file.
